Nothing Left To Say
by sienna27
Summary: Missing Day, post JJ/Will's wedding. Emily's last few minutes in the office, told from Hotch's POV. Written from canon as a friendship piece, but shippers can squint if they want. One shot.


**Author's Note:** All of my muses went away, but I was looking in the scrap heap I call the "Unfinished Fics Folder" and I found this. I genuinely have zero recollection of writing it. I remember having the idea a few years ago, and writing like the first two sentences . . . I found four fully proofed pages. So I added one more page, and it wrapped it up.

So though I LONG ago stopped watching the show, I am unfortunately 'osmotically' aware of general events that happen in the comings and goings department. It's really annoying. But to that end, this was a scene that popped into my head when I picked up that Emily was leaving for the second time (after the wedding).

I have NO intention of dipping my quill into canon again so please just take this for the ficlet that it is. And please don't tell me ANYTHING that's going on :) Thanks.

But to this, presuming straight up canon (to my fuzzy knowledge), no known romantic relationship. Just Hotch's office in the last few minutes of Emily's last day. It's all from Hotch, first person. And I like first person for stuff like this because you get a bit more emotional resonance from it. Or at least that's the intent. You shall be the 'deciders' on that point :)

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**Prompt Set #69 (February 2015)**

Show: Casualty

Title Challenge: My Last Day

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_"The best things said come last. People will talk for hours saying nothing much and then linger at the door with words that come with a rush from the heart."_

_~Alan Alda_

_/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/_

_All is flux, nothing stays still_

_~Plato_

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**Nothing Left To Say**

My eyes fall back to the papers on the corner of my desk. It's at least the tenth time that day that I've looked at them . . . and then looked away from them. I want to just put them away, file them into a drawer and forget about them. But I can't.

Emily needs them.

And she'll be in here soon to pick them up.

It's the final copy of her transfer. The signed one. The official one . . . the permanent, one.

She was leaving.

For good.

It hurts every time I think about it. It was hard enough losing her the first time. And I don't want to go back to those days where I walk by a clean desk and a quiet phone. I want to see her messy little organized disorder. And I want to hear her quiet sass, and quick witted putdowns.

I just want her to stay.

But as my fingers begin to tap anxiously on the edge of my desk, I know that I need to get over it. I should have _already_, gotten over it. Or if not actually gotten over it . . . I won't . . . I should have at least found a way of processing it.

Suppressing it.

Because this isn't _new _news . . . it's old news. I've known for weeks now that she was leaving. Though really . . . if I'm honest with myself . . . I've known for even longer than that.

I've known for months.

Those bad days of hers started coming more and more often. And when they did, she kept her bargain. That bargain we made that day on the jet. She came to see me every time. And she would talk . . . and I would listen.

And sometimes she would cry.

And as those tears ran down her face, they would leave little cracks in my heart. Because I could see that with each new case, that she was slipping further away. She wanted to go.

But I wanted her to stay.

And therein lay the struggle.

Because I was trying to help her, because I wanted what was best for her . . . for her and the team . . . but I could see that what was best for her, wasn't going to be what was best for team.

And it certainly wasn't what was best for me.

Then there was that final day where she knocked on my door . . . her eyes wet . . . and she told me that it wasn't working. That it wasn't getting better. That she appreciated all that I had tried to do, but that it was time for her to do something else.

It was time for her to go.

And though I wanted to talk her out of it, to assure her that it would get better if she just gave it more time, if we just talked a little more often . . . I didn't.

Because it wouldn't.

It was never going to get better. The job was what it was . . . a living hell. And she had already traded one hell for another.

Who was I tell her which one was better?

So even as another fissure formed in my heart, I nodded and said okay.

Whatever she thought was best.

And that was the absolute bitch of it. Because I really did just want what was best for her.

And this place wasn't it.

Some days I wonder how much longer I'll stay myself. Another six months . . . another ten years?

I don't know. All I know is that my last day isn't quite here yet.

But I can see it over the horizon.

It's a shimmer. Like an oasis in the desert.

But there are still some miles to get there.

And now . . . my breath catches at the knock on the door . . . it looks like I'll be taking that walk alone.

"It's open," I call out softly. And as the knob begins to turn, I note that my voice sounded strained. But that's because I know that it's her.

She's coming to say goodbye.

And sure enough, my jaw clenches when the door swings back and she appears in the open space.

She's got her bag on one shoulder and a box on the other hip.

Her eyes are wet.

I quickly stand up and walk around to the front of my desk. There are now just a few feet separating us. And for a moment we just look at one another. But then I find my voice . . . though it's just a whisper.

"Are you all set?"

"Yeah," she answers with a nod and a sniffle . . . one of the tears slides down her cheek, "I just need my papers and I can go."

"Right, yes," I answer like an idiot while turning back to pick up the hated transfer, "the papers."

How I wish could burn them.

And then I'm turning back around, and I'm saying the words that I've had stuck on my tongue for a week.

"If you need anything, _ever_," my voice thickens, "any time of day. You just call me, okay?"

"Okay," she sucks in a ragged breath, "thanks."

And then once again there's a sniffle. I can see from the way she's biting down on her lip, hard, that I'm now breaking what little composure she has left. And I don't want to make this harder for her.

It's bad enough already.

So I hold out the transfer papers, and with them, a letter of reference paper clipped to the back. She didn't ask for it, and doesn't know I wrote it, but they were words that I had to get down. Things that I wanted her to know. How exceptional she was.

In every way.

As she takes the small stack of forms from me, my thumb brushes along the side of her hand. Her skin is soft. And for a moment we both freeze, because this is something I never allow myself to do.

Touch her.

Always, all of them, they have to be kept at arm's length. It's the only way I can do this job of sending them off to do dangerous things, and chase dangerous people. If I don't keep my distance, I'll lose my objectivity.

At least that's what I tell myself.

And I have no other truth but that one. So it's the one I choose to believe.

Either way, she's leaving now, which means my little rules don't matter anymore. So that touch of her skin, it reminds me of that night we danced . . . and that memory causes the touch to linger for a moment longer.

Then I feel a pang in my chest, it's one of grief. And loss. I'm losing another one. It's not a death.

But it's a hole.

Christ.

Feeling my own eyes now starting to water, I quickly blink away the moisture as I gently pull my hand away from hers.

My arm falls limply to the side.

"Good luck," I whisper with sad smile, "and be careful."

"Yeah," she clutches the papers to her chest, "you too." And then she sucks in a breath, and I think she's going to say something else, but instead she just winces and drops her eyes to the floor.

"Goodbye."

Her eyes stay locked on the carpet when she says the word . . . and still even as she turns and walks out.

She pulls the door shut behind her.

Apparently that's it . . . I bite down on my cheek . . . our last exchange.

It was quite brief.

I start to turn back to my desk . . . brief or not, it's time to break out the whiskey . . . when suddenly my door smashes open again. I whip around just in time to have Emily crash into me.

Literally, she knocks me into my desk.

Then her arms are around my neck, and she's sobbing on my shoulder. The hopelessness of her grief, and her tears, they break through every shield I've ever tried to put up with her. And as I slip my arms around her slim frame and pull her in close, I can feel my eyes start to burn again.

_Brief might have been better, because this goodbye could easily kill me._

And then she chokes out against my throat.

"I'm gonna miss you so much."

And feeling the warmth of her breath there, on my skin, is another stab in my gut. And I squeeze her just a little bit tighter.

"I'm gonna miss you too," I whisper back as I run my hand runs down her side, "every day."

And though I want to say more, to say the things that I put in the letter . . . I don't. Because I put them in the letter for a reason. And to say them aloud, to _speak_ my actual feelings, which I do not do, it'll just make it worse.

For both of us.

So instead I simply hold her until she stops crying. And then there's nothing but silence. I have one hand still on her back, but with the other I fumble behind me.

I'm looking for the Kleenex.

The side of my hand bumps into the box, and I yank one out and pass it to the woman in my arms. Though it would be easier, logistically, to just let her go now so she can clean up her face, it's finally hitting me . . . like a freight train . . . that I truly might never see her again.

So I hold her while she blows her nose and fixes her makeup, and basically goes through a half a box of the tissues.

I pass them to her on by one.

But when she's finally gotten herself cleaned up, I feel her take a breath, and I know it's time.

Again.

So slowly, so slowly, I let my arms loosen . . . and fall.

Once again they're hanging limply by my sides. And once again, one of use is staring down at the carpet.

This time it's me.

But then I feel her soft fingers touching my jaw. And she's lifting my head, forcing me to look down at her. What I see makes my heart ache.

There's a sad, tear filled, smile on her face.

"Thank you," she gives me a knowing nod, "for everything."

Then she leans up, and she kisses me. It's just on the cheek. But she's never done that before.

And I doubt she'll ever do it again.

The last thing she does is pat my chest . . . and then she's turning . . . and she's walking to the door.

And she's gone.

For a moment I stand there, leaning against the desk, staring at the open doorway, hoping that maybe she'll come back one more time. But I know she won't.

But I want her to anyway.

It's a fool's hope. And I rarely, if ever, allow myself to indulge in foolish thoughts. But I don't have many people in my life. That's partly by circumstance, partly by design. Either way, my circle is small.

And now it's about to become smaller still.

So I give myself that foolish minute, just in case the gods might be kind and send her back to me again. But of course the gods have never given me a break. Because the seconds tick away in silence. Thirty.

Sixty.

Ninety.

Finally, I take a breath and I close my eyes, and I accept the new reality of my world.

She's gone.

The pain I feel at that realization, is like a tearing in my chest. It's even worse than the first time she left. Because back then, though I was worried for her safety, in my heart I had always believed that she would return. And she did.

Because she hadn't wanted to go away.

This time though . . . she left by choice.

Not necessity.

And this time, as my eyes fell shut and my gut ached, I knew one thing to be true.

She wasn't coming back.

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_A/N 2: And that's all she wrote. I know the ending was kind of a downer, but feel free to assume they kept in touch :-)_


End file.
